


Sexual Harassment in the Internet  Age

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Torchwood
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-12
Updated: 2008-03-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8005735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Captain Jack Harkness hasn't gone so long without blissful satisfaction since puberty struck, and that was a damn long time ago.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sexual Harassment in the Internet  Age

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Sexual Harassment in the Internet Age  
>  **Fandom:** Torchwood – RPverse, AU (very, very, VERY AU. Here’s canon over here, on Earth all snug in their underground lair with the Weevils; here’s our AU, CLEAR over on the other side of the universe, waving at its source material fondly. Our Jack isn’t immortal *heh. Yet*or a former Time Agent and Ianto’s never kept a Cyberwoman in the basement and did I mention the organization’s based in San Francisco, not Cardiff and they don’t hunt aliens so much as things that go bump in the night? Yeah, smidge AU). But the AU’s not really prevalent in this round.  
>  **Pairing:** Jack/Ianto (I am a shameless, pathetic fangirl…I haven’t had an actual OTP for so long I thought I’d grown out of it. Oh, but I was wrong…)  
>  **Rating:** PG, maybe stretching to a PG-13 at its absolute worst, but only for implied naughtiness and wicked intent.  
>  **Word count:** 1,240  
>  **Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I’ve borrowed my toys from Auntie Beeb and Uncle Rusty’s toy box and fully plan on eventually giving them back someday, when I’m tired of them. Won’t be my fault if they’re broken, though.  
>  **Warnings:** Jack is a naughty, naughty bastard (not that this is news), but that’s about as bad as it gets.  
>  **Author’s Note:** I sat down over lunch yesterday to work on the Book That Dare Not Be Named (no, seriously, the series still hasn’t been sufficient named), Part Deux, but somehow John Barrowman crooning “You’re So Vain” softly from my CD player derailed all possibility of shutting the Jack-voice up in my head. So we got this instead. Blame the Captain for the fact Book Two still languishes in unfinished misery.  
>  **Summary:** _Captain Jack Harkness hasn't gone so long without blissful satisfaction since puberty struck, and that was a damn long time ago._

This, Jack thinks, is the perfect revenge. Sweet, exacting, unbeatable revenge.

It’s been almost a week of living with the gypsy’s curse: six days of falling over his own feet, bruising himself with flailing arms and randomly stumbled upon objects. A week of utensil mishaps and misdirected fingers that, despite their intent to scratch his ear or pinch his nose, somehow wind up jabbing him in the eye instead. It’s nothing but dumb luck that he hasn’t broken something more substantial than a coffee mug, either of his own or on someone else’s person. And if the stumbling and bumbling and skinned knees and bruised shins aren’t bad enough, Ianto has taken endless, exquisite delight in teasing and tormenting him at every possible turn, something he most likely deserves and, under less restrictive circumstances would even enjoy.

He really, truly, loves nothing more than that long slow build-up, the teasing touches and wicked words that raise the temperature a bit at a time. It makes everything foreplay, even the most innocent brush of hands as paperwork is passed across the desk. He loves to watch the seconds tick by slower and slower with sweet anticipation, to see his lover staring up at the clock with the same frustrated glance and pained exhale. It makes the end result so much better. At least that’s the explanation he always gives Ianto when the archivist growls in his ear about the effect of all that delicious torment, mutters on about how unfair it is and how hard…no, _difficult_ …it is to think about expense reports and vault logs while Jack’s mouthing obscenities across the office and –

\- would he just get naked already?

But after a week and a half of the archivist’s healing ribs and bruises and the full length of the gypsy’s hex, Jack is nearly at breaking point – has been nearly at breaking point and worse for _days_. Captain Jack Harkness hasn’t gone so long without blissful satisfaction since puberty struck, and that was a damn long time ago.

If he’s ever allowed near that gypsy again, he might just shake her like an Etch-a-Sketch and see how she likes it. Not that he’s likely going to be allowed anywhere near said gypsy, of course, but a man can dream, can’t he?

He sits at his curse-proofed desk, free of anything and everything he could do himself or anyone else harm with (up to and including pencils, scissors, paperclips, and paper – should he be unlucky enough to paper cut himself to death), and watches the flow of people back and forth across the office beyond his windows. One person in particular has his attention, the dark-haired, bright-eyed Welshman poised over a computer on the senior staff’s level. Ianto is oblivious to the gaze focused on him or the evil intent lying just beneath its surface, enthralled instead with whatever information scrolls past on his screen.

At eleven o’clock on the dot Ianto pushes his chair back and engages the screensaver on his workstation with a few quick keystrokes. As he reaches for the empty mug on his desk he gestures to the kitchenette behind him. “Going to make a fresh pot,” Jack hears him say the second before a chorus of “Would you be a dear and…”’s rise from Tosh, Owen, and Gwen’s desks in perfect unison. Ianto rolls his eyes, like he always does, but still collects the outstretched coffee mugs without verbal complaint. The Welshman turns to the Captain’s office out of habit but there’s no coffee mug, outstretched or not, to collect. Coffee, like all other hot liquids, has been deemed dangerous until such time as the curse runs its course, as has ceramic. Jack pouts, but Ianto just shakes his head.

“Wednesday,” he says before he turns with the collected vessels and disappears into the kitchenette.

Jack springs into action the second Ianto’s back is turned, nudging the mouse until the computer screen comes to life again, displaying the empty, open messenger window situated in the center of it. A glance at the clock tells him he has eleven minutes – the time necessary to prepare, brew, and doctor four cups of coffee to Ianto’s strict satisfaction – to complete his task. Fingers are less deft than normal as they run over the keys, an extra letter slipping into a word here and there and delaying the press of the send button a few seconds longer than usual. Jack keeps each message sent short and sweet, as much for dramatic effect as to facilitate his reduced speed, pausing now and then to reconsider a word choice or to question his own understanding of physics, logistics, or anatomy. He can hear the methodical clank of mugs being arranged on the office tray as he’s finishing the last message; sees Ianto emerging from the kitchen as he hits send one last time. Jack leans back in the chair, hands tucked behind his head in endless self-satisfaction as a grin tugs at both corners of his lips.

That only a quick shift of weight and a foot digging into the underside of the desk keeps his easy lean from ending with him falling backwards out of the chair does nothing to reduce his smug expression.

Down below, Ianto reclaims the chair at his workstation with a sigh and a long sip from his mug. Jack knows the exact moment Ianto finds the blinking message at the bottom of his screen, reads it in the curious quirk of the archivist’s eyebrow. The slow reddening of the Welshman’s cheeks and the part of his lips are all the signal Jack needs to know he’s started reading the litany of instant messages. Jack leans forward, knocking the mouse off his desk, when Ianto shifts in his chair. Their eyes lock when Ianto gets to the final line – “Now who needs that cold shower, hmmm?” - and turns a heated, frustrated glare at his boss. Jack only grins.

“Going to the archives,” Ianto says, voice suddenly rough and strained. He storms off without giving anyone the chance to reply, a strategically placed manila folder held in front of him until he’s well out of sight.

Jack just keeps on grinning. Right up to the point Tosh appears in his doorway and clears her throat.

“My desk’s right behind his, you know,” she says, casual and conversational as she leans against the doorjamb.

“So it is.” Jack’s grin doesn’t falter, even as he shifts around to get seated upright once again.

“In clear view of his monitor.” Steady eyes work to convey the unspoken implication to the words before slipping into something apologetic and a little embarrassed. “Not that I spy over his shoulder often but the repetitive message notifications got the better of my curiosity.”

Jack, shameless as the day is long, still grins. “And?”

Toshiko shrugs. “And you should know that if you don’t follow through with number six at least he’ll probably kill you.” As she turns to leave she pauses, head half-swiveled to give the Captain her profile and half of an amused smirk. “Slowly and painfully. Heard him mutter it himself.”

As Tosh’s footsteps recede, Jack brings the message window back up on his screen, scrolling and counting quickly to see what exactly number six was. When he finds it, his grin becomes a leer.

At her desk, Tosh blushes when he yells out “Oh, that I can definitely follow through on!”


End file.
